


Reasons to Visit France

by adrenp



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: /swearing, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Genderfluid Character, Lance is the Main Character, M/M, Please Comment (It Makes My Day), Plot Twists, Probable Mild Violence in Future Chapters, Slow Burn, Voltron / The Mortal Instruments Crossover, klance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:51:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9582140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrenp/pseuds/adrenp
Summary: Lance, warlock extraordinaire and free-wheeling bisexual, is approaching his 300th birthday. As he's fighting to keep from solidifying, he's plunged into the center of a mystery involving Shadowhunters and a terrifying new threat...Keith, exhausted Korean-American college student, is just trying to study abroad in peace. But when he finds out something shocking about his birthright, he becomes tangled in a mess from a world he never knew existed.Can they face the challenge? Or will they crumble under the pressure?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is my first time posting something I've written independently, and I really hope you like it. I know it may seem like a strange crossover, but I'm taking a chance. Just to clarify, the characters from VLD are living in the world from TMI; no characters from TMI will be appearing in this story.
> 
> Love,  
> Adam

When you’re 300 years old and counting, sometimes little details get lost in the void.

For example: birthdays, appointments, the ending to that song from 1735 that’s been stuck in your head for a century… Small stuff like that. Also, maybe possibly, the fact that you’re believed to be dead in several countries. Including France.

Lance woke up, blinking, to several crisscrossing flashlight beams aimed directly at his face. There were voices shouting importantly in French, and through the haze of yellow light, he could see some very official-looking badges pinned to some very official-looking police uniforms. Scrambling into a sitting position, Lance threw an arm up to block the brilliant brightness from his eyes and felt a smile overtake his face. His mouth split in a sharp white smirk to reveal sharper white teeth. He felt a sudden surge of stupid adrenaline.

In one fluid motion, he leaped out of bed and drew himself up to his full height. Trying to look dignified (despite wearing only fuzzy penguin pajama bottoms). he grinned charismatically at the policemen while trying to slap together a convincing lie in his brain, or to concoct an escape plan that wouldn’t end with him getting shot.

“Bonjour, messieurs. Si vous voulez bien indiquer vos lampes de poche hors de mes yeux, je suis sûr que nous pouvons résoudre ce problème.” he spread his hands in a peaceful gesture. _Hello, gentlemen. If you would kindly point your flashlights out of my eyes, I'm sure we can work this out_.

After a moment and a few disgruntled grumbles, a majority of the flashlight beams had been redirected. However, one officer remained with her light pointed resolutely in his face. This, for some reason, filled Lance with the unhelpful urge to laugh. He could vaguely determine her shape through his squinty eyes - her long silvery hair and dark skin. Her strangely colored hair reminded him of something glaringly obvious: magic existed! And, more obvious, he was a proficient magic user! Lance stifled a laugh. The pretty lady cop’s determination further fueled his bravado, and he put his hands on his hips.

“Eh bien, mes amis ... C'était ravi de vous rencontrer, mais je dois vraiment y aller.” he winked in the general direction of the female officer. _Well, my friends... It was lovely to meet you, but I really must be going._

Unexpectedly, the lady cop shouted back in perfect, London-accented English: “Don’t you dare, Lance!”

Even as the smile melted from his face, he snapped his fingers. In an instant, Lance had vanished into thin air.

~

He reappeared in a dirty side alley, the mood to laugh having dissipated with the silver-haired officer’s words. How did that woman know his name? Moreover, what was she doing in a country that was clearly not her homeland? And there was something about her that struck Lance as vaguely Shadowhunter-ish… But what would a Shadowhunter have to gain by working with the mundie police force? It was all very suspicious.

Leaning against the yellow brick wall and trying to avoid getting mud on his ‘80s (that’s 1880s) very vintage boots, Lance fell deep into thought.

He was no longer wearing his pajamas - he’d magicked himself into one of his favorite outfits even as he’d disappeared into the ether, and had made sure to enchant his more prized belongs to follow. Two stuffed glittery duffel bags of his travelling things had appeared at his feet and, unfortunately, in the mud. At least it was French mud, he supposed. In any case, he was wearing a rather loud red velvet brocade vest paired with some flatteringly tight pants and, of course, his boots. It made him feel better to know that any passerby could see him leaning beautifully against the alley wall. He was fairly certain that the red of his vest contrasted well with the yellow background. It improved his whole mood, in regards to the mysterious and confusing circumstances.

Because he knew how excellent he looked, he decided to continue to lean and mull the situation over.

-

Keith had been in Bordeaux for a total of one day, and he had already thoroughly run short of his French vocabulary on multiple occasions.

He was apparently much further out of his depth than he had initially thought, and Google translate could only get you so far. Earlier on, during his brief excursion outside without his phone in an attempt to truly test his knowledge of the language, he’d gone to the grocery store in an effort to obtain some lunch. He had inquired after some salami. Assumptively, though, he’d committed a major linguistic sin, because the shopkeeper had turned beet red and, with some very determined pointing, insisted that Keith leave. After that, he figured that it would probably be a good idea to make a quick exit.

So he had, and now he was embarrassed _and_ hungry.

Sighing, he rounded another corner (was this four corners now? was he going in a circle?) and studied the cobblestone as he walked. He pushed a flop of black hair out of his eyes. When he glanced up again, he was in a dirty-looking alleyway occupied by an extremely flamboyant guy that looked to be about his own age.

Keith could only stare.

After a minute, the stranger must’ve felt Keith’s gaze on him, because he looked up. He had a smirky look on his pretty brown face, and it made Keith blush vermillion. This guy, whoever he was, knew just from the look on Keith’s face.

Something about this guy made Keith want to smirk right back… But, being himself, he just turned without a word and broke into a dead sprint in the opposite direction.

~

Now this was certainly an interesting turn of events.

Lance straightened out of his lean and stroked his invisible thinking beard. He was wanted in several countries for a few misunderstandings over the years, which made life a tad difficult sometimes, but at least it provided a challenge! Being immortal, one had a tendency to stagnate. Luckily enough, two things were sure to keep Lance from turning into a boring (if gorgeous) bisexual rock: having the police on his tail, and meeting cute boys.

And the young man who had just sprinted away certainly fell into that second category.

Something about the guy’s face though… He looked like someone. Had Lance known his grandfather? Great aunt? Long dead cousin many times removed? It wasn’t improbable; once he’d been in a relationship with the many-greats granddaughter of George Washington (whom Lance had known personally, and quite well). It was a little awkward. Lance didn’t really like to think about that stuff too much. It gave him a migraine.

So long as he kept moving, running, fighting his way through the inescapable river of time… He was fine. Just couldn’t think about it too much.

In any case, Lance’s attention span was conveniently not very long. The strange incident with the silver-haired lady was still lurking in the back corner of his brain, but he pushed it further away. Today was going to be a good day. And Lance would make it so.


	2. Chapter 2

When he was thoroughly out of sight and out of breath, Keith jogged to a stop and put a hand on a nearby lamp pole. As he leaned, hunched over and chest heaving, a wave of embarrassment nearly crushed him flat. He was such an idiot. What kind of moron gets a smile from a cute boy and books it in the opposite direction?

He sighed and straightened up, raking a hand through his hair. It was probably sticking out all over the place now. Glancing around, he noticed that he was somewhere totally new. He’d only been in Bordeaux for about a week, and the novelty of his environment combined with his already iffy sense of direction meant he hadn’t explored too far from his living quarters just yet.

People were milling about, a mixture of pasty American tourists snapping pictures, French grandmothers feeding pigeons, and young couples holding hands. A beautiful Saturday afternoon. The warm golden light hit the water beneath the bridge to Keith’s left, sparking off the small ripples caused by curious fish. The air was light. A nippy breeze ruffled his hair. All around the plaza, the sight of couples laughing and smiling and just… being together, fearlessly, made Keith’s chest tighten. He sighed again, abandoning his post at the lamp pole and going to seek out an empty bench.

Unsurprisingly, given the pleasantness of the atmosphere, all of the benches were full. Keith couldn’t blame the bench-sitters. It really was excellent bench-weather. After this brief and fruitless search, he decided to just sit on the edge of the bridge. He knew it was childish, but he really wanted to swing his legs over the water. Maybe he’d see some fish, and clear his head a little.

He made his way over, almost tripping over an older man’s yippy little dog, and sat on the stone edge of the bridge. It was built in such a way that he could sit under the wrought iron side railing without fear of bumping his head. He swallowed another sigh. Resisting the urge to put his face in his hands and give himself over totally to the embarrassment of the day, he grasped the railing above him with one hand and leaned over the water. So far, no fish. The water was clear blue, deep enough for smallish boats to sail, but shallow enough that he could see the bottom. The sand was shifty, silty, and interspersed with large, smooth stones. It was a nice distraction. Very chillaxing, as his roommate Joey would say.

After a while of just sitting, he started. Somehow, escaping his notice, it had faded from sunny afternoon to chilly evening. He pulled his thin red jacket tighter around himself, watching the water below him glitter dark gold in the vanishing light. He knew he’d sat down around around 4:30, but it couldn’t be that late, could it…? He glanced at his watch and his heart skidded. It was 6:00!

He wasn’t sure why this made him so panicky. It was a Saturday, and it wasn’t like had any plans (or friends). But just the idea that he’d been staring down at the water for an hour and a half, with a completely empty brain… something about that really freaked him out.

Shaking off the unnerved feeling as best he could, he raised his eyes to the horizon. The sun was dipping below the skyline, coloring the wispy clouds pink and yellow. Shards of light scattered across the water, over the wrought iron of the bridge, onto Keith’s beat-up shoes. He reached for the railing above his head and pulled himself up, wondering if anybody had noticed how long he’d been there and thought him strange. Now that the inexplicable panic had subsided, he realized that he didn’t really want to leave. That he didn’t really have anywhere else to be.

He leaned over the railing and watched the horizon swallow the sun.

 

~

 

Lance, although enjoying the riskier things in life, actually did have a good head on his shoulders when it came to the police -well, when it came to running from the police.

His relationship with law enforcement, mundie or otherwise, left something to be desired. You’d think that being 300 years old, Lance would’ve learned that it was easier to just keep his head down and stay out of trouble. You’d be right. Lance was fully aware that life would be a lot less dangerous if he just followed the rules. But what was life, without a little danger? In any case, he didn’t enjoy risk so much that he would bother staying in France. He was getting a little tired of the atmosphere, anyway.

Smiling quietly to himself, he watched the boy running through the streets, in the general direction of Lance’s favorite bridge. Something about that guy had piqued his interest. The way he was dressed - red jacket over a sarcastic t-shirt, skinny blue jeans, and sneakers - identified him as a mundane. However, Lance could tell that the blood of the Angel ran in those veins. Was it possible? Had Lance encountered two closeted Shadowhunters in one day?

Scooping up his duffel bags, one in each arm, he considered his options. The safest place for him to run would probably be somewhere unexpected, like Cuba, but when had he ever played it safe? Aside from that, Lance was really missing New York. He grinned like a man who wasn’t being hunted by the French police: America it was.

He vanished in a shower of bright gold-blue sparks.

 

~

 

Apparently, the rather loud _crack!_ of his entrance frightened the squatters living his apartment.

As Lance blinked the spots from his vision, he caught a glimpse of three raggedy-looking individuals falling over themselves to get out the door. He dropped his duffel bags at his feet. Through a vague haze of blue, he noticed that his home was messier than usual. His mood darkened instantaneously. With a snap of his fingers, the front door and only exit slammed shut and locked before the intruders could un-intrude. With his vision restored and irritation buzzing in his ears, Lance gave his apartment a once-over.

It was totally trashed. Candy bar wrappers, fast food bags, and various other garbage was strewn on the floor. The walls were stained with various liquids, and glass littered the carpet, like the squatters had spent their free time throwing bottles at the wall. One of the windows was broken, and the sink was piled high with dirty dishes. Lance didn’t mind when people stayed, uninvited, in his home. He understood needing a place to crash, and Lance had a tendency to vacate his various living spaces for years at a time. What pissed him off was these losers’ complete disrespect for other people’s things.

“Would you like to explain yourselves, gentlemen?” Lance’s voice was menacingly polite. He noted, without surprise, that the three men were white and did not, in fact, look like they had spent any time living on the street.

One of them, the brown-haired one, started sputtering drunkenly, waving his hands with such vigor that he nearly whacked his friend in the face. The tallest of the three, a blond man with a crooked nose, tried for a simpering smile, but ending up looking like he was about to barf. The third one just looked scared.

The third man pointed at Lance, jaw hanging slack, “Are you a witch?”

Lance rolled his eyes. He didn’t have the patience to deal with this right now. Gold sparks flew from his fingertips, and the broken window to his left flew open with such force that the rest of the glass shattered from the pane. With an upward flick of his wrist, Lance sent the three men levitating and floating towards the open window. The brown-haired one shrieked and the guy with the crooked nose surrendered his lunch (all over Lance’s carpet). Smiling lazily, Lance’s dark eyes darkened more as he dropped his hands - and the three men dropped too, outside the window, from the 73rd floor of Lance’s apartment building.

For a frightening moment, Lance considered letting the intruders die, but he quickly reeled himself in. They were dicks, but they didn’t deserve to end up human pancakes for it. Without even looking out the window, Lance made a fist and jerked his hand up. The screaming stopped, and he could hear the three assholes below, exclaiming in surprise that they were still alive.

He realized, belatedly, that even with the time difference, it was only 10:30 in New York. People had most definitely witnessed the whole spectacle, and it wasn’t hard to figure out which apartment the men had fallen from; Lance’s broken window gaped open like an accusation. Lance sighed, surveying his apartment again in dismay. He had some cleanup to do, but it would have to wait for another day. The NYPD would be knocking on his door soon.

Tiredly, he picked up his bags. Maybe Massachusetts? With the great city of Boston in mind, he vanished once again into the ether.

 

~

 

Luckily, no one greeted him this time when he exploded into glorious existence in his penthouse.

With an exhausted groan, Lance dropped his bags for the final time on the floor and belly-flopped onto his couch. He let his hand brush the white-carpeted floor, trailing his thin brown fingers through the fuzz. Quickly losing interest in this, he rolled onto his back and considered turning in for the night (even though he was still on French time, and it was 4:50 there). However, Portaling not once, not twice, but three times in one day? That shit was exhausting.

Burrowing into the couch, he summoned his favorite soft blanket (a waste of magic, really) and tried to settle in. But his brain wouldn’t shut up. His thoughts were whirring with the strangeness of the day - the lady cop’s words, the weird familiarity of that boy he’d seen earlier. But there was something else, tugging at the back of his mind.

He had a scary gut feeling that there was something malevolent coming. It was as if there was a dark cloud, casting a shadow over the near future. The emotion was too vague to quite put words to - was it a premonition? a hunch? - but it was there nonetheless, blooming in his chest and stealing his air.

With ferocious suddenness, he sat up. There was absolutely no way that he was going to spend tonight alone, not with the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. Making an executive decision to do something reckless, he kicked the blanket off his legs. He jumped off the couch and straightened his clothes.

Ignoring the heaviness in his limbs, he snapped his fingers and disappeared.

 

-

 

A _crack!_ reverberated through the plaza, so loud that Keith nearly toppled into the water.

Whipping around, he saw a flock of pigeons fleeing into the sky and a homeless man snoozing on a bench, apparently undisturbed. Other than that, it was empty. When had everyone left? Keith shook his head. It felt like there was something buzzing deep in his ear, rattling his brain. It wasn’t painful per say, but it was disquieting.

Returning his attention to the bridge view, he tried to dispel the irrational feeling that he was being watched. Unless that homeless man had woken up, he was alone. He studied the sky, now studded with light. It was truly breathtaking, the stars like diamonds spilled on a blue velvet cloth, but he couldn’t focus. His paranoia transformed the moon into a baleful silver eye, staring straight down at him. The disconcerted feeling wasn’t going away, and he couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation for the earlier _crack!_ that was still echoing quietly in his memory. Suddenly he heard the pattering of running feet.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

 

~

 

Lance thought that he was going to be romantic, suave, maybe sweep this guy off his feet… but he was too out of breath to try any of his excellent pick-up lines.

He had appeared in the same alleyway that he had been leaning in earlier that day and, despite his flagging energy, had decided to sprint in the same direction that the boy had gone. It was dark out now, and Lance had nearly tripped several times on the uneven stone ground, but even the threat of scuffing the knees of his pants wasn’t enough to discourage him. He was in fine form, going through one of his wild moods that could last from a few hours to a few decades. Lance felt free, and unpredictable.

It didn’t take him long to reach the end of the street that opened up into the plaza. He paused, resisting the urge to put his hands on his knees and catch his breath. Instead, he opted for his patented, aesthetically bisexual lean. Even from a distance of a couple hundred feet, Lance could see the silhouette of that beautiful stranger on the bridge. He almost couldn’t believe his luck. It had been - what, 2 hours? - since their encounter, and the guy was still there. Clearly, it was fate that they meet. Lance was still for a moment, just watching. Then he took off like a shot.

He got to the bridge, jogging to a stop just behind the other boy. Hoping he wasn’t breathing embarrassingly loud, Lance tapped the guy on the shoulder and tried to compose himself.

 

-

 

Keith couldn’t help but laugh. It was funny, seeing the guy on the ground in his fancy outfit.

Keith had turned around so fast, the stranger had stumbled back and fallen on his ass. All of the built up stress in Keith had come out in a burst of raucous, unrestrainable laughter. The look of indignance on the other boy’s face was so in contrast with the casual flirtatiousness that had been present earlier, it only added fuel to the fire. No matter how hard he tried, Keith couldn’t stop laughing. Tears escaped the corners of his eyes. He clutched at his ribs.

Sputtering from his awkward position on the ground, the guy said, “Hey! Give me a hand?”

Doing his level best to choke back the laughter, Keith extended a hand.

“I’m Lance.” said the boy, taking it.

Suddenly, it was like Keith snapped back to reality. The laughter turned stale in his throat, and he coughed, abruptly self-conscious. Lance’s hand was warm, and he could feel the other boy’s pulse thrumming underneath his fingertips as he helped him up. It had just occurred to him that, if this guy was here, it was because he had wanted to see Keith again. Which was weird as hell. It had been a weird as hell day (week. month. life.)

In any event, coincidence or on purpose, the boy was here now. He was here, and staring at Keith in an unfamiliar way that made Keith’s cheeks turn bright red.

“So… I was looking for you because I wanted to ask you something.” Lance said, his clear blue eyes flicking up to study the stars. He had stood up (with Keith’s help) and brushed himself off; he looked beautiful beneath the Bordeaux starlight.

Somehow, in a matter of seconds, this guy had gone from clumsy and disgruntled to suave and elegant. Keith swallowed, watching the way the starlight played across Lance’s cheekbones. It was unfair. How did the situation change so quickly, that this jerk now had the social upper hand?

“And what is it? That you wanted to ask me, I mean.” Keith asked, quirking an eyebrow and crossing his arms over his chest. He mentally congratulated himself on sounding so cool.

Lance’s face became the picture of smugness, and he opened his mouth to respond, but whatever he was going to say was cut off. The other boy’s lips twisted in concern, and he appeared to be listening to something.

Following suit, Keith paused… There were sirens in the distance. He glanced around, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise, but all he saw was the homeless guy on the bench sitting up and scratching his head. When Keith glanced back, the other boy had straightened up like he’d been tasered, and Keith’s heartbeat stumbled. Was this guy a criminal?

“Hey… I know we just met, but I have a lot to tell you about. You were adopted, right? I know some things about your real parents, and about your birthright.” Lance’s body had relaxed, but his clear blue eyes could’ve belonged to a caged tiger. And his voice… he sounded about a thousand years old.

Keith felt like a rib of lightning had arced down from the sky and struck him in the chest. His parents? How the hell did this guy know anything about his _parents_?

Even as Keith’s mind raced, he heard the sirens coming closer. Lance was having a tougher and tougher time disguising his agitation, and his thin brown fingers were tapping faster and faster against his leg. Abruptly, Lance drew himself up to his full height and put his hand lightly under Keith’s chin. In a sudden moment of strange clarity, Keith met his eyes.

“Are you ready to go?” Lance said it casually, jokingly, as if he was a boyfriend who had just arrived at his date’s door with a bouquet of flowers. He dropped his hand from Keith’s chin and held it out to him instead.

Vaguely, Keith understood. This was an offer. An opportunity. An escape from the mundanity of his life. He nodded mutely and took Lance’s hand just as the first police car skidded into the plaza. In the background, he could hear shouting and guns cocking, but the rush of blood in his ears drowned it out. Lance’s eyes shone like a promise.

Together, still holding hands, they took off running in the opposite direction of the police cars. As they reached the end of the bridge, though, instead of escaping into the network of alleyways ahead of them, Lance stopped and they both slid to a halt. He turned, so that the pair of them were only a few feet away from the water running under the bridge.

Grinning like a crazy person, Lance shouted above the sound of sirens: “Here’s the part where you’ve got to trust me!”

Pulling Keith with him, Lance took a running leap and then they were both falling, fast, toward the water. Keith was struck with the sudden realization that he had just thrown his lot in with this potentially insane stranger and that if he died, it would be his own fault.

Honestly though? He wasn’t afraid. He was just tired.

But a heartbeat before they hit the surface of the water, they were enveloped in an aura of blue sparks… and everything disappeared.

 

~

 

Even as he fell through the ether, Lance could feel himself starting to fade. Most likely, it had not been a great idea to squeeze a week’s worth of magic into a day.

Despite the fact that he was rapidly losing consciousness, it was plain that something was wrong with the Portal. It was blue and gold, yes, but it was being shot through with streaks of green even as he watched.

Another millisecond, and Lance’s feet connected with solid ground. However, instead of the fuzzy white carpet of his Boston penthouse, he was standing on cold gray stone. Fighting the waves of dizziness, he raised his eyes to find that he was face to face with a carving of the Angel Raziel. Oh no. That meant…

“Hello, Mr. Belle. Hello, Mr. Redwine.” said a cool, female voice.

_Shadowhunters._

 

-

 

As Lance melted into an unconscious puddle of too-long limbs on the floor, Keith came to a conclusion: he was scared out of his mind.

The bridge in Bordeaux had faded into a seemingly endless tunnel of colorful sparks, and then into… wherever they were now. An uninviting, rigid building populated by uninviting, rigid people.

The dark-skinned woman with shiny silver hair had said something to Lance before he’d collapsed, and she was now staring at him dispassionately, as though he were a mud clod that someone had tracked in. Behind her stood a tall, handsome man with a grim expression and what appeared to be a prosthetic arm. A glowing white sword hung loosely from his belt. Perched at the top of the stairs, a small person that reminded Keith of a little bird was watching things unfold with interest.

Keith’s head felt like it was about to explode. He’d known there was something strange about Lance, but… magic? Was that what had just happened? And who were all these people? Why were they looking at Keith like he was some kind of alien?

Everything was tilting.

In three quick strides, the dark-skinned woman had closed the space between herself and Keith. Her eyes were an intense purpley-blue, but the corner of her mouth was slightly curved, as if she was on the verge of smiling. “My name is Allura Brightweather, and you’re in the Boston Institute. The people you see around you, and myself… we’re Shadowhunters. Do you know what that means?”

She was talking to him slowly, as if he were an infant. Vaguely, he registered her foreign sounding accent - it was somewhere between posh Londoner and something he couldn’t identify. For some reason, he had the urge to laugh. Keith was so tired and lost. It had been a whirlwind couple hours, and this woman and her funny voice was just icing on his cake of weird.

Squashing down the laughter, he shook his head mutely. A thousand thoughts were running fast through his brain, whirring, screaming for his attention. In his belly, fear, curiosity, anger, confusion, and exhaustion fought for dominance, twisting up his insides.

Allura Brightwhatever’s face held a gentle, pitying smile. She reached to take Keith’s hand, but he pulled away. She grimaced slightly; “I know this must be a lot to take in, and I’m sorry -”

A singular, harsh laugh escaped him.

“But there are some things you need to know,” she averted her eyes. Her brows were furrowed, like she was unsure if continuing would be the wisest course of action. She took a deep breath, and her gaze flickered back to meet Keith’s.

“You’re destined to save us all, Keith.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just a quick note: this chapter switches POVs between Pidge and Hunk. Also, a quick note: Pidge is genderfluid. In this story, they use she/he/they.
> 
> Love,  
> Adam

Pidge couldn’t believe her eyes. Could this flop-haired dork really be the Chosen One, or was this some kind of cosmic joke?

That wouldn’t surprise her too much, given the way her life had been going lately.

With a slight sigh, she stood up and took her glasses off. Blindly, she cleaned them on the edge of her shirt and pushed them back up her nose. Pidge blinked once, twice, and… nope, the mundie and his inert warlock companion were still there at the Institute doors.

She watched Allura lead the numb-looking mundane out of the entry hall. Before Allura disappeared through the doorway, Pidge saw her gesture something to Shiro that apparently meant, “deal with that Downworlder”, because he immediately strode over to the unconscious warlock. Shiro picked him up and slung him over one shoulder like he weighed no more than a bag of styrofoam peanuts, then started toward the stairs.

“Need any help?” Pidge called quietly, already knowing the answer.

Shiro shook his head and flashed a rare smile, “I think I can carry this string bean up a flight of stairs by myself. Thank you, though, Katie.”

Trying not to grimace at the sound of her birth name, Pidge smiled slightly. Waiting until Shiro had passed her on the stairs, she went down instead of up, toward the kitchen. She could us a snack, and some advice.

Taking the steps two at a time, she tried to ignore the mixed feelings messing up her insides. This whole situation with the Chosen One was too weird, and too soon. The death of her father and kidnapping of her brother was still so fresh a wound that everything else that was happening - even the events that were supposedly fulfilling the prophecy - tended to fade into the background. She knew, in the rational part of her mind, that this was a huge deal. Right now, history was being made, and she was here to witness it. But she couldn’t bring herself to care. The only thing that Pidge felt strongly about nowadays was revenge.

She was so caught up in her own head that she nearly ran straight into the kitchen door. Pulling back just in time, she blinked rapidly and yanked the door open. Hunk was standing at the kitchen counter, his chopping knife moving rapidly over a wooden cutting board.

Without looking up, Hunk said, “Hey, Pidge. ‘Nouns?”

“She. How did you know it was me?” Pidge tried not to sound pleased that Hunk had so casually and nicely asked about her current pronouns. 

He huffed a short laugh, “I heard you make that sound you make whenever you almost run into something. Is everything okay?” Hunk, apparently having finished dicing his veggies, scraped them into a bowl with the edge of his knife.

Pidge was quiet for a moment. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to burden Hunk with all of her anxieties just yet. “What are you making?” she inquired instead.

“It’s ratatouille. The kid and the warlock - they Portaled from France, right? I figured I’d make them something French.” Hunk turned on the stove burner and set a pan over it. He exhaled tiredly, “It’s not just for them, either. This whole business with the prophecy and the Chosen One… I’m stressed out, man. And this recipe is complicated enough for it to be a challenge. It’s been a good distraction.” Glancing up, he shot Pidge a shaky smile.

Suddenly glad that she hadn’t said anything, Pidge returned the smile and turned uncertainly. She wasn’t feeling so hungry, really, and she was in the kind of mood where she wasn’t sure if she wanted company or not. She shook her head and started walking out.

Pausing at the door, she said over her shoulder, “I’m sure they’ll love it, Hunk.”

She was upstairs before the door closed.

 

-

 

Hunk watched Pidge leave, a vague feeling of guilt making his face hot.

He sensed that something was wrong (well, more wrong than usual), but he was so caught up in his own thoughts and feelings that he just didn’t have the energy to pretend that he knew what to do. Usually Hunk was proud to be the guy that the rest of his Institute family came to for advice, but lately… He just felt extremely underqualified for the job. It was exhausting, being everyone’s shoulder to cry on and never having a shoulder for himself. On the one hand, he knew he was still just a kid. There was no reason that he should be expected to carry the emotions of others all by himself. On the other hand, it was a weight he’d grown used to bearing, and now he felt like he was letting everyone down… Especially Katie. 

 _No_ , he mentally chided himself, _Not Katie. Pidge._

Trying to fall back into his distraction, Hunk delicately scraped the chopped veggies out of the bowl and into the hot pan. A spat of sizzling olive oil landed on his bare arm, and he bit back a squeak. He hadn’t realized how high the flames were. Stirring the slightly overfull pan of vegetables, he turned the burner down with his free hand and absently watched the fragrant steam rising from the stovetop.

For whatever reason, the memory of Pidge’s coming out resurfaced in his mind. He remembered it like it was yesterday - it was an awkward moment for both of them, but Hunk had never felt more honored. As of now, Hunk was still the only one who knew that Pidge was… well, Pidge.

 _It was a sunny day. Hunk was sitting in the library, enjoying the warm golden light pouring through the window as he practiced his violin (Prelude No. 1 in C major. Bach.) He was watching the dust motes floating in the sunbeams and just realizing how freaky dust motes were when Katie came in. She had cut off her ponytail, and her hair was curling wildly above the tips of her ears. There was this defiant gleam in her eyes, like she was daring him to say something other than “hello”._  

 _He said “Hello.”_  

 _“Hi.” There was a beat of awkward tension. Katie pulled this funny face, like she was concentrating really hard on something. “I have something to tell you, but you can’t tell the others. Especially not Matt or my dad. Okay?”_  

 _Mute nodding._  

_“I’m… um, genderfluid.”_

_The words hung in the air like an actual, palpable thing. Katie sounded embarrassed, and almost… scared? Hunk didn’t understand, though, and it must’ve shown on his face, because she exhaled slowly and met his eyes._  

_“It means that sometimes, I feel like a girl, and sometimes, I feel like a boy. Sometimes, I don’t feel like either. It’s different on different days. It’s how I’ve felt as long as I can remember, but I just found the word for it recently. Do you understand?” _

_Figuring it was best to be honest, Hunk shook his head. He had absolutely no clue what Katie meant by all that._  

_Sighing, she said, “That’s okay. But will you respect it?”_

_Instantly, he nodded. Katie beamed at him, like this small thing was more than she’d expected. It made his heart hurt a little bit, thinking that Katie had actually wondered if he wouldn’t respect her for being whatever it was that she was. Hunk thought for a moment._  

 _“Will you teach me how?”_  

_Katie’s smile could’ve lit up the Eiffel tower._

After the whole uncomfortable coming out process, Hunk had gone on the Boston Institute’s singular, clunky computer and researched everything he could get his hands on about gender deviation and genderfluid-ness. Once he had a better understanding of what Pidge was talking about, it was easier to make the little changes Pidge had requested of him - like using the name “Pidge” instead of Katie when it was just the two of them, or asking about the day’s pronouns.

Honestly, Pidge made a lot more sense than Katie, anyway.

Looking back on it now, and thinking about the courage it must’ve taken… It doubled his guilt. And that Hunk was the first (and at present, only) person to know? Tripled it.

He might’ve started crying, but then he noticed that something smelled like it was burning… Ten seconds later, the fire alarm went off.

 

~

 

When the fire alarm went off, Pidge didn’t even react. 

Between Hunk’s absentmindedness and Coran’s …gradually improving…  attempts at baking, the thing went off at least three times a week. It was a wonder that Allura or Shiro hadn’t disconnected it yet.

Pidge had been trying to read for a solid twenty minutes, but she couldn’t focus; she had been rereading the same paragraph that whole time without actually taking in any of the information. Dog-earing her page, she shut the book, standing up and setting it on the nightstand with a satisfying _thunk._

Before her father’s death and Matt’s disappearance, she’d been trying her best to break some of her bad habits - pacing, nail biting, finger tapping - but ever since she figured that she could cut herself a break. Now, she clasped her hands behind her back and began feverishly pacing the floor. It felt good, being in motion, even if it was just mindlessly walking the space between the left wall of her room and the right.

Abruptly, the shrieking alarm went silent. Abruptly, Pidge could hear the voices that that alarm had been cloaking.

Muffled through the wall, she heard someone yelling indignantly: “Where the hell am I? Why were _you_ with the French police?”

“He must be delirious.” It was definitely Allura’s voice, quieter, so much so that it was barely discernible.

Curious, Pidge quickly opened her bedroom door (that was the trick to keep the hinges from squeaking) and slipped into the hallway. Ahead, she could see light spilling from an open door, illuminating a wedge of the hall. The rest of the corridor was dimly lit by the odd flickering wall lamp, and it stood out in stark contrast. Decisively, she took a careful step in the direction of the room. As she inched forward, pieces of a conversation were coming into sharper focus.

Shiro’s deep voice sounded mildly panicked; “What do we do with him? We don’t need him here, and even if we did, the Accords state that we can’t hold him for no reason. But why was he with Keith?”

“I’m well aware of what the Accords state, Takashi.” Allura’s voice was dry, and Pidge resisted the urge to laugh. Allura only ever called Shiro by his real name when she was irritated. “And I haven’t the faintest idea why he was with the Chosen One. Maybe we should ask him?”

The unfamiliar, petulant voice that must’ve belonged to the warlock in question said, “Yeah! Maybe you should ask him!”

Twin sighs of annoyance. Pidge wondered how long this Downworlder had been awake.

Suddenly, two pairs of footsteps started making their way out of the warlock’s room, and Pidge stiffened. She knew, by gut instinct, that she had seconds before Shiro and Allura discovered her snooping. Willing herself not to step on any of the creaky boards of the Institute floor, she darted back to her room just in time. From the hallway, she could hear the sound of them closing the guest room door and walking toward the stairs. 

She leaned against her bedroom wall and exhaled, a little puff of relief. Safe.

Out of the blue, someone cleared their throat, and Pidge nearly jumped out of her skin. Her head whipped up, and she met a pair of unfamiliar eyes. In an instant, she realized two things:

  1. This was not her bedroom.


  1. She was face to face with the Chosen One.



He cleared his throat again, looking uncomfortable, and extended a hand; “Hi, I’m Keith.”


	4. Chapter 4

s

Keith could only stare.

Destined to save them all? What the hell?

Allura smiled gingerly at him, as if she feared he might bite, “Come with me. I promise I’ll explain everything.” She started walking away and gestured for him to follow.

He did. An explanation sure sounded good right about now.

For a minute or so, they were just walking in silence. They passed through a corridor, the walls lined on either side with doors. The wooden floor beneath their feet was covered with a long strip of worn floral carpeting that muffled their steps. It was dim, the only light coming from a few sporadically placed lamps affixed to the dark timber walls; in the faint illumination, Keith could see Allura’s face pinched up with thought, as if she was trying to figure out where she should start.

 “Well.” She cleared her throat, “Like I mentioned before, this is the Boston Institute. It’s a safe haven for Shadowhunters, like me and you…” Glancing to the side and seeing the look of utter confusion on his face, she grimaced slightly.

Keith raised his eyebrows, feeling that he needn’t ask the obvious question.

“You really don’t know anything?”

He shook his head.

“Then… I suppose I’ll start from the beginning of the beginning.” Pausing, she said,“Shadowhunters, or Nephilim, are a race of half-human, half-angels that fight demons, and sometimes rogue Downworlders - vampires, werewolves, Faeries, warlocks. We protect humanity from evil. We devote our lives to making sure that mundanes - regular humans - never have to know that the Shadow World exists.” She said all this while looking at the ground, but now she stopped walking and turned to Keith. “You’re a Shadowhunter, Keith. One of our allies, the High Warlock of Boston, could sense the angel blood in your veins the second you appeared at the threshold of the Institute. He’s around here, somewhere. We’ll go talk to him later.”

Swallowing hard, Keith averted his eyes and said quietly, “So you’re telling me that I’ve secretly been some kind of badass demon-fighting ninja this whole time? Is that why I’ve always felt so out of place in the regular world?”

“That could be part of it, yes. But that’s not everything… You have an even higher concentration of angel blood than a normal Shadowhunter. That’s why we’re so convinced that you’re the hero in the prophecy.” Allura was twisting the ring on her finger as she spoke, like it was a nervous habit… or like she was holding something back.

“Ok. Alright.” He couldn’t explain it, but even as his brain ached, everything almost felt like it was falling into place. Ever since he’d been a child at Saint Mary’s, he’d known he was different. And it wasn’t just that he was gay… there had always been a missing piece. Maybe this was it.

Looking uncomfortable, Allura said, “Let’s go. Your room is this this way. I promise I _will_ tell you everything, but first, let’s get you settled in and fed. Our resident culinary genius is making you something French, I’m told.” She started down the hallway again.

“So… vampires, mummies, werewolves, witches… all those things really exist? And you said you fight them sometimes?”

“Well, not mummies or witches. But generally, everything supernatural you’ve ever heard or read about is rooted in truth. The legends about werewolves and vampires are mostly true, except for that rumor about garlic. They are the half-human results of demonic diseases. Warlocks are the offspring of demons and humans. Faeries are half-angel and half-demon. We refer to these four species of beings as ‘Downworlders.’”

She took a breath before continuing. “And demons… In every religion and every culture across the globe, there are tales about demons. Grotesque creatures who feed on the fear and anguish of human beings… even the Sightless mundanes have inkling enough to know that these monsters exist.” Allura explained over her shoulder, not even making eye contact with him as she shared information that turned his world inside out.

The way she said _sight_ made it sound like it was capitalized, so Keith asked her about it. They had entered a big room full of books - the Institute library, he assumed - and she had stopped suddenly, like she’d just remembered something. She was sorting through a pile of papers on a gigantic oak desk in the center of the capacious room.

She spoke as she shuffled through the pages, “The Sight is what enables an individual to see the Shadow World - the world of Shadowhunters, demons, and Downworlders. While Nephilim are more likely to have the Sight, they are sometimes born without it, and must be taught to See. Strangely enough, there are also cases of mundanes born with the ability to see the Shadow World unhindered. It is a phenomena that we still do not understand.”

Allura stopped flipping through the papers, apparently having found what she was looking for. She straightened up, holding her discovery out in front of her; it looked like a photograph. There was this sudden look on her face, a mixture of sadness, nostalgia, and… anger. If he squinted his eyes, Keith could almost make out the scrawled writing on the back of the photograph. It said something like ‘Viu’s wedding day!’

Still looking at the picture, Allura said “You were raised in an orphanage for the first few years of your life, weren’t you? Saint Mary’s Home for Wayward Boys?”

Keith stiffened. “How the hell did you know that?”

“Our ally, the High Warlock of Boston… he can find out just about anything, if the price is right. Would you like to see a picture of your father? He was a good man. I knew him, as a child. He was like family to me.”

He nodded mutely, his irritation at the invasion of his privacy dissipating instantaneously. His heart was thudding in his ears. Allura extended the photograph, image side down, and he noticed that her hands were trembling slightly. Before he could think about it, he took it and flipped it over.

A young woman with electric green hair and dark skin stood in a golden wedding gown, her eyes almost as bright as her smile. One might think that the combination of gold and vivid green would be laughable, but the girl was so beautiful that it was impossible to think that she could ever be anything else. She was smiling at what Keith assumed was her soon-to-be husband. He was standing across from her in a gold tux, holding her hands lightly and grinning right back. Keith noticed with a small start that the young man was Korean, and that his eyes were stunning jade green. In the background, a little out of focus, a middle-aged man stood with his hands clasped in front of him. He was also wearing a tux, and was smiling kind of sadly at the young couple. Since the older man was Korean too, Keith guessed that he was related to the groom.

Allura came up behind Keith, resting one hand delicately on his shoulder.

“Are those my parents?” he asked quietly, his voice catching. He shrugged her hand off.

Shaking her head, she pointed instead at the man in the background, “That’s your father, Jin Woo Redwine. Your mother was a Faerie. From what I know, your father met her when he visited Faerieland on a diplomacy mission, and she bewitched him. You were the result.”

Keith felt a knot forming in his throat. His mother _bewitched_ his father? He tried to swallow back his disgust, to no avail.

Pointing to the two lovers in the foreground, he asked, “So who are those people?”

“The groom is your uncle, Ji Sung. The bride…” she paused. “The bride is my Aunt Vivian.”

He almost dropped the photo. “Does that mean we’re cousins?”

“Something like that.”

Finally tearing his eyes away from the image, he realized that her face had gone cold and blank and hard as stone. A sudden feeling of fear tightened his stomach, and he realized that he was in this place, with people he barely knew, who were telling him all sorts of crazy shit. What if this was a some kind of cult? Why was he trusting these strangers?

And why had he jumped off that bridge in Bordeaux?

 

~

 

Allura didn’t notice that she was glaring until she saw the alarm in Keith’s eyes.

She tried to school her features into a friendlier mask, but she was having a hard time. Although she hadn’t told Takashi (she didn’t want him to worry), it was rough for her to take this boy around her home and explain to him everything that needed explaining. In the rational part of her mind, she knew that it wasn’t Keith’s fault that Jin Woo had been killed by that wretched Faerie woman… but his birth had preceded Jin Woo’s death by mere hours. Though Keith was blameless, she wasn’t sure if she could forgive him.

“You can keep the picture, if you’d like. Now come with me. I’ll show you to one of the guest rooms. You remember all the doors we passed, earlier?” her voice sounded falsely cheerful, even to her own ears.

Keith nodded, still looking like he might run away at any moment.

Straightening the papers on the desk into a neat pile, she started to walk toward the corridor that housed a majority of the spare bedrooms.“This Institute, and all the others like it, are built in such a manner that they can accommodate approximately 150 Shadowhunters at any given time. Some are bigger or smaller than others depending on how many Shadowhunters are in the vicinity, but it’s rare for an Institute to be at full capacity…” she drifted off. She was rambling. “Do you have any questions?”

Without hesitation he responded, “Yeah. A lot.” He took a breath and started, “How did you know I was a… a Shadowhunter, before your warlock friend saw me here? You said he knew I had angel blood the second I showed up here, but what about before then? Also… how did I get here? And is Lance a warlock?” he said all of this in one breath.

 _Raziel._ This was going to be a long night.

They were still walking, passing door after door. All of the extra rooms were exactly the same, but Allura wanted Keith to have the bedroom between hers and Takashi’s… just in case he decided to disappear.

“Ok. Let’s start with how we knew you were a Shadowhunter. I assume you remember your roommate, Joey?”

He nodded, a look of vague understanding beginning to register on his face.

“Joey isn’t… Joey. His name is actually Josiah Wisk, and he’s the High Warlock of Boston that I’ve been mentioning so much. We planted him as your roommate, so he could keep an eye on you. We’ve known all along that you were a Redwine, but the Clave - our government - has been in shambles since the 1990s. The records were buried and forgotten about, and since it hasn’t been a priority to find new blood… no one went looking for you. But last year, after the events of the prophecy started coming to life… We recruited Wisk to go out and search for any unknown Shadowhunters, in case the Chosen One had been raised as a mundane.” She searched his eyes, looking for anger at being abandoned, or fear.

“And Wisk found me.”

“Yes.”

Keith drew his eyebrows together, and stuffed his left hand in the pocket of his jacket, “So is Lance in on it? Did you plant him too?”

Allura laughed, one sharp sound. “No, Mr. Belle was quite the surprise. But he was the key to getting you here, if accidentally. You see, Wisk had been trying to figure out a way to break the news to you for weeks, to find a way to get you to Boston. And when you jumped through that Portal with your warlock friend, it was the perfect opportunity… All Wisk had to do was manipulate the Portal to drop you here, instead of Mr. Belle’s intended location. Funnily enough, the Institute isn’t all that far off from where you would’ve landed. Apparently he owns a penthouse somewhere in downtown Boston.”

“Yeah. Funny.”

 

-

 

Finally, finally, Allura stopped in front of one of the many identical doors and told him that it would be his “for the time being.”

That sounded ominous to him.

In any case, it was nice to finally be alone. The room was plain, but it looked comfortable enough. A big bed with crisp, white turned down sheets took up most of the space, but someone had managed to cram a small desk in the corner. There was a wardrobe instead of a closet, which seemed strange to Keith, but at least it was something to hang his jacket in. He shrugged it off. The worn red fabric was comforting to feel and to look at, like a piece of his old life. Instead of putting it in the wardrobe, he hung in on the doorknob. It was nice: the only familiar thing to him in the whole Boston Institute.

 _His old life._ Keith found it kind of funny, how he was already thinking of his mundane life in the past tense. But this made so much more sense, somehow… Well, the idea that he was some kind of demon-slaying badass was still pretty foreign, but the concept of being different made sense to him.

Throwing himself down on the bed, he considered just passing out right then and there. He was certainly tired enough. Even after only laying down for a second, he could feel his eyelids growing heavy… But he still had so many fears and doubts. On the one hand, he had his gut feeling that everything he had heard was the untarnished truth. And even if it wasn’t, what did he have to lose? He had no living family, no close friends, no blindingly bright future ahead of him. On the other hand, he had the rational side of his conscience telling him to get out, in case this _was_ some kind of cult.

A knock at the door jolted him out of his thoughts, and he sprang off the bed. He scanned the room, looking for anything he could use as a weapon, just in case. “Who’s there?” he asked, fighting to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

“Um… I’m Hunk. I’m just here to bring you your dinner, dude. I can just set it outside the door if you want. I figure you’ve had a pretty rough day.” the person on the other side of the door sounded nervous, too.

Keith’s heartbeat returned to almost normal. “Yeah… Thank you. That’d be great.”

From outside, Keith could hear the sound of a tray being set down on the wooden floor, followed by receding footsteps. He exhaled a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. After waiting a moment, he cautiously crossed the floor and pressed his ear against the door.

Nothing.

Turning the knob, he pushed the door open with a faint shriek. On the floor, safely out of range of being knocked over by the door, was a white ceramic bowl covered by a steamed-up glass lid. Delicately, he picked up the little dish and carried it to the bed, shutting the door behind him with his foot.

Inside was a fork wrapped in a napkin, and… ratatouille. Perfectly made, delicious-smelling ratatouille. A rainbow of vegetables were arrayed in thin slices, a fragrant spiral of tastiness. Eagerly, Keith unwrapped his fork and started to dig in. A small voice at the back of his mind whispered, _what if it’s poisoned?_ , but he honestly couldn’t care less. It was one of the most amazing things he’d ever eaten.

He was so distracted by his ravenous hunger that when the strange kid from earlier burst in, he almost didn’t look up.

The kid closed the door so fast that it didn’t have time to squeak. Breathing fast, they pressed themself up against the wall, like they were trying to become invisible. Keith, in confusion, set his half-eaten dinner down on the bed with a miniscule clatter. The kid’s head jerked up, and their eyes went huge and round behind their glasses.

Uncomfortable (although admittedly not very threatened), he offered his hand to the kid and said, “Hi, I’m Keith.”

It took a second for the kid to move, but eventually they gingerly took Keith’s hand, “I’m Katie. Katie Rosewell.” She took her hand back quickly, “I’m sorry. I thought this was my room. These doors… They all look the same, y’know?”

Before he even had time to process this, she had slipped through the door and vanished back into the hallway.


	5. Chapter 5

It didn’t take long for Keith to fall asleep.

Yeah, it had been an exhausting day. Yeah, he was potentially being held by a cult. But damn it if he wasn’t tired out of his mind. The room was spinning when he laid down for the last time, and his eyes were fluttering shut before he even had the chance to get under the sheets.

-

Allura hesitated to knock on the door.

On one hand, it was 5:00 p.m. and the Chosen One still hadn’t bothered to grace the halls of the Institute with his presence. On the other hand, however, she knew he’d had a wearying few days, mentally and physically, and he probably needed the sleep…

She knocked on the door.

From the other side of the wall, she heard a startled yelp and the sound of unsteady feet hitting the floor. “Hello? Who’s there?”

Clearing her throat, she said in as cheery a voice she could muster, “Hello, Keith. It’s Allura. You slept through breakfast, and lunch, and I assumed that you wouldn’t want to miss dinner. It’s 5:00 in the evening.”

“Oh yeah… Yeah, okay. I’ll be out in just a second.” There was some shuffling, and the sound of him pulling on his jacket. Had he slept in his clothes?

Trying not to sound annoyed, she said, “Take your time. Find your way to the dining room when you’re done getting dressed, alright?”

A vague noise of affirmation from the other side of the door.

Nodding to herself, Allura spun on her heel and made her way down the hall.

-

Lance watched this whole exchange, peeping through his cracked door.

When Allura started walking down the hallway (despite being headed in the opposite direction of Lance’s room), he backed up so fast that he almost tripped over the bed. He wasn’t ready for that particular Shadowhunter to know he was awake just yet. There were some questions he wanted to ask, and Allura hadn’t struck him as the friendliest gal around.

Resisting the urge to summon something more comfortable to wear from his penthouse, Lance just straightened out his clothes as best he could and winked at his reflection in the mirror. There was still a good amount of glittery eyeshadow hanging on from the other night, and it didn’t look too shabby. He smiled at himself. Today was going to be a good day. Big things were happening, surprises cropping up at every turn… Finally, something exciting!

Clearing his throat unnecessarily, he cast a last glance at his glorious visage and slipped quietly out the door.

Naturally, the first board he stepped on creaked.

Cursing the Shadowhunters’ apparent inability to properly maintain their fine wood floors, Lance strode down the hall as quickly as he could. For the most part, he was sacrificing silence for speed, but he figured that there really wasn’t a way for him to get from Point A to Point B without some squeaky planks.

He’d never been in this particular Institute before, as he’d only been living in Boston for about a decade or so, but most Shadowhunter residences were laid out pretty similarly. With some impressive guesswork (or maybe just sheer luck) he’d managed to navigate the labyrinthine corridors and find his way to the library.

It occurred to him, as he stepped into the magnificently huge room, that there was no guarantee he’d find the specific Shadowhunter he was looking for in here. Truthfully, it seemed that he was alone.

With the small sigh of someone who didn’t fully think through a plan, Lance tilted his head back. The high, arching roof made him feel swallowed in empty space. It was beautiful, in the soft-edged light of the deepening evening, and it made him wonder what it looked like in the blazing midday sun.

There was a pair of stained glass windows, painting the bookshelves in thin watercolor and illuminating colonies of dust motes. One of the windows depicted the obligatory Raziel rising from Lake Lyn with the Sword and the Cup. The other, however, was something that Lance had never seen before: an abstract piece, largely composed of dulled out blues and purples, but interspersed with bright shards of golden glass.

There was something strange about the pattern of the gold bits… He tilted his head left, right, but no matter the angle he couldn’t put his finger on what it made him think of.

Suddenly, a voice made him almost jump out of his skin.

“You’re right, y’know. It’s not abstract. That’s the Prophecy.”

Lance whipped around to see… no one. There was a quiet, resentful cough and a muttered _down here_. He inclined his head. Ah. It was the little one.

“How is that the Prophecy?” he asked, sounding somewhat more indignant than he would have preferred.

The small Shadowhunter pushed up their glasses and took a breath, “I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but honestly, who cares? You seem trustworthy enough.”

Lance tried not to look too flattered.

“At 5:00 a.m., on the first Wednesday in the month of October, the light falls through that window in such a way that the patterns on the floor become words. The golden shards that the artist worked into the glass window? They form the words, and the other colors contrast just the right way, so that it can be read. Cool, right?”

Nodding with genuine interest, Lance asked, “Do you know who the artist was? And also… forgive me, but what’s your name?”

“Funnily enough,” started the little Shadowhunter, with a strangely wistful smile, “I’m related to the artist. We don’t actually know which Rosewell created the window, just that it was, in fact, a Rosewell. My name is Katie, by the way. Betcha can’t guess my last name.” Katie grinned impishly and pushed their glasses up the bridge of their nose.

Distractedly, still gazing up intently at the window, Lance said, “Well, you do remind me of a Sharpbow that I once knew. Her name was Catherine… and I just realized that you just spent a whole four sentences basically telling me that your name is Katie Rosewell. Sigh.”

“Did you just say the word ‘sigh’ out loud?” 

This kid just couldn’t cut him a break. Not because he was a warlock, though, because he was just an idiot. It was a good feeling.

Lance nodded in response, eyebrows scrunched in concentration as he tried not to grin, "Yeah, well, I was gonna say  _fuck_ , but I don't know how old you are, and I don't want to ruin your childlike innocence."

Katie didn't even acknowledge this, except for with a little smile.

“You know… My great-grandmother was actually a Sharpbow. Her name was Mylene. I’m going to go to dinner now. You should probably head over soon, too. Allura doesn’t appreciate it when guests are late, warlock or otherwise.” And with that, the young Shadowhunter turned on their heel and strode out the door.

-

Keith flattened himself unnecessarily against the doorframe to let Katie pass. She gave him a quizzical look, but said nothing and continued on her way. He exhaled a long breath that lasted until she was turning the corner to the hallway, and then turned his attention back to the… stained glass windows. Because that was 100%, absolutely what he was in the library to see. Windows.

His gaze dropped and found Lance, who was still staring up at the abstract blue-and-gold glass piece in wonderment. God… he was beautiful. His face was perfect, upturned, and painted in light. The sun caught the remnants of glitter on his half-lidded eyes, and the sparkles that had dripped down to his cheekbones. When Lance swallowed in his concentration, his brown throat corded, and Keith’s mouth went dry as he had a sudden vision: himself, running over to Lance and kissing him there, feeling the warmth of his skin and…

 _Yikes._ Creepy. Shaking himself out of the slightly too realistic mini-dream, Keith’s eyes refocused on the image in front of him, only to find that it had changed. Lance was now looking right at him, one eyebrow quirked and grinning rakishly. Keith blushed, more surprised than embarrassed, and cleared his throat.

“Hello.” said Keith, mentally cursing the stiffness in his voice.

Crossing the room and smiling like they were old friends, Lance said, “ _Hola, querido._ How have you been? Is it… a lot?” he gestured broadly to the library, his face morphing into something more empathetic than flirty.

Keith could only nod. He dropped his eyes.

“Would you do me the honor,” Lance drew himself up tall and proffered his hand, “of accompanying me to what is sure to be a truly disappointing meal?”

With a miniscule noise of reluctance that may have just been in his head, Keith’s eyes flicked between Lance’s outstretched hand and his kind, open face. _What the hell_ , he thought, allowing himself a little smile. _It’s already been so strange. I might as well let myself have this small thing for tonight, and ask questions later._

He grabbed the warlock’s hand. “Why do you say it’ll be disappointing?” Oh boy. He was nervous. Were they going to like… start walking? How did this work, exactly?

In his easy way, with his dumb smirky face, Lance started down the hallway, pulling Keith along and somehow making everything seem completely natural. “Because it’s a Shadowhunter dinner, and everything they do is lackluster.”

Keith huffed a laugh.

“Also, your hand’s kinda sweaty.”

This was going to be a longer walk than he’d anticipated.


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as they got to the dining room door, Keith ripped his hand out of Lance’s. Lance rolled his eyes. The Chosen One’s cheeks were red, and he was patting his gross sweaty hand against his emo jeans desperately to dry it off.

Sighing loudly, Lance sauntered into the dining room, taking in the scene before him: five Shadowhunters of various shapes and sizes, and another warlock, looking out of place at the immaculately white-trimmed table. Each of them had a silver plate set before them, loaded with steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Everyone was digging in, _mmm_ ing because they were eating too fast to compliment the food with real words.

Allura noticed Lance’s entrance, and cleared her throat loudly. Almost every fork was set down. There was a tremendous, fitful clatter.

The handsome Shadowhunter with the monochrome hair was so absorbed in the meal that he just kept on eating until the hunky one elbow-nudged him. With a singular clang, the beautiful man dropped his silverware. He gave Lance a wobbly smile. It was cute, but it looked a little strange with the guy’s cheeks stuffed full of mashed potatoes.

Lance grinned right back, but he made sure that it wasn’t too convincing. He wanted these people to know that he didn’t trust them. He made sure they could see it on his face. With this rather chilly, polite expression, he seated himself and waited for Keith to join them at the table. Lance looked over his shoulder, to confirm that the pretty Shadowhunter boy had, indeed, made it to the dining room door.

He had. Keith was clinging to his spot in the doorframe for dear life, looking sweaty and pale. Well, maybe he didn’t _look_ sweaty, but Lance knew. Lance knew.

With a little flick of his wrist, Lance magicked a chair to pull out for the other boy, signaling for him to _just come and sit down already._

Belatedly, Allura said, “Please come and join us, Keith. We have a lot to discuss.”

Awkwardly, his legs looking too long and his arms swinging rigidly at his sides, Keith made his way across the room and took his designated seat. He wouldn’t look up from the tablecloth.

“There is a lot we need to fill you both in on, so we might as well get to it. But, first, would anyone like some dinner? Our resident culinary expert made it.” She gestured to the big guy, who beamed widely and dismissed her compliment with a modest wave of his hand.

Nodding stiffly, Keith fiddled with his hands on the table. The attractive “culinary expert” disappeared through a door into what Lance assumed was the kitchen for a second, and returned with two piled-high plates. He handed the first one to Keith, who accepted the dish, glancing up and giving the other guy a flicker of a grateful smile.

Inexplicably, Lance’s heart twisted.

Ignoring the feeling, Lance took his own plate and winked saucily at the chef. “Thank you, _bel homme_.” To Lance’s surprise and delight, he winked right back.

“You’re welcome. Should we do like… Introductions? I feel like everything happened really fast the other night, with like, the fainting and all that.” the chef took his seat, but didn’t pick up his fork yet.

Clapping her hands twice (which struck Lance as a little odd, but endearing), Allura said, “Oh, certainly! Excellent idea, Hunk. Ought we go around the table?”

Running his hand through his hair, Hunk grinned sheepishly and said, “As you may have guessed, my name is Hunk. Well, they call me Hunk, but it’s just a nickname. I’m the chef here, but I fight too, just the same as everyone else…” He seemed to realize he was rambling a bit, and he cleared his throat, indicating that someone else should go.

To his left sat the ruggedly handsome guy. His hair was gray and white, but he couldn’t have been past his mid 20s. He swallowed the food in his mouth and said, “Hello! My name is Takashi Blackstair, but everyone calls me Shiro because of an incident in the Addis Abba Institute where… well, it’s kind of a long story. Anyway, welcome! Both of you! We’re glad to have you here!” Shiro smiled, somewhat uncomfortably, but it seemed genuine. Mostly, he looked like he wanted to get back to his green beans.

“And I’m Coran! Coran Hightower. I’m Allura’s… uncle. Sort of. It’s nice to meet you two.” This came from the ginger man with the memorable mustache who was sitting at the head of the table. He said all of this while folding his cloth napkin into a… what was that, an echidna?

Lance snapped back to attention when Allura drew herself up and announced, “As you both know by now, I am Allura Brighweather, the head of this Institute.” She patted her lips daintily with her cloth napkin, looking prim, but there was something dangerous that Lance recognized about her face. She was powerful, and she didn’t need to show off for him to know it. He’d remember that.

From Allura’s right: “I’m Katie Rosewell. I’ve met you both.” they said this while cutting their steak, but there wasn’t anything rude about their curtness. It was more of a _yes, yes, welcome, let’s get this show on the road_ kind of brevity. Lance’s mouth quirked up in a smile.

The warlock (and Lance knew that was what he was, because he had shark teeth and eyes the color of an acid vat. Not sharp teeth, mind you, actual _shark_ teeth. They were somewhat oversized and jaggedy and lined in neat rows of three) went next. Glancing at Keith almost self-consciously, he said, “My name is Josiah Wisk. Keith knows me as Joey, but here I go by Wisk. I’m the High Warlock of Boston.” He paused, and then: “Surely you’ve heard of me?” this last comment was directed at Lance.

“I’m afraid I’m not particularly involved in… stuff.” Lance responded, eloquent as always.

Wisk raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a wry grin playing at the edges of his mouth, “Aren’t you the High Warlock of Queens?”

“Nominally.” Lance’s normally quick wit was failing him. He made it a point to not get involved with warlocks, because they tended towards being apathetic and unpredictable, but this guy was _gorgeous_. Tousled black hair, vitriolic green eyes, and freckles… though the shark teeth threw him a bit. He decided to focus on that. Subconsciously, though, he knew that he really had no right to be the least bit judgemental of other warlocks’ marks.

Suddenly, a voice drew his attention. “...care to officially introduce yourself?” It was Allura, her eyes laughing in a way that suggested she knew he had been daydreaming.

“I -” Lance and Keith started simultaneously. Ah. Embarrassing. Lance made a motion with his hand that meant, _you first._

-

 _You first_ , was what he’d deciphered from Lance’s impatient-looking gesture.

With an obvious intake of breath, Keith said, “I feel like you people probably know plenty about me, if you’ve been watching me like you say you were. I mean, Joey - sorry, _Wisk_ \- certainly does. But sure, I’ll introduce myself. My name is Keith Rhee. And I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

It was in that moment that Keith realized he was _angry._ Angry about being lied to, angry at being abandoned, angry at the cosmic joke that was his life. What right did these people have to show up after 19 years and demand he let go of the life he’d built for himself to save them? He had spent nearly two decades fighting for everything he had. Keith had taken all of his rage, and all of his pain, and turned it into the drive that had made him valedictorian, that had gotten him his scholarships, that had put him in the top five of his class at Columbia University. These Shadowhunters - who were supposed to be his kinfolk - hadn’t given a shit about him all this time, and now they come knocking? To relieve him of everything he’d worked for, for their sakes? No. It was wrong.

Keith was angry.

He looked around. Everyone was speechless. The fury vibrating off of him must’ve been plainer than he’d thought it was. It was almost laughable, how suddenly and ferociously this feeling had hit him.

“I have spent my entire life working my way up to the top. So that I could make something of myself. I have had to scrape, and claw, and fight my way to where I am now. And you want me to give that up? Because I’m supposed to have Angel blood, supposed to fight in some invisible war, for a group of people that I didn’t know existed until yesterday, people that were supposed to be my family and have my back, and never cared about me until they knew I was worth something?” Every word was separate, sharply enunciated. Keith’s hands tightened into fists in his lap.

Allura looked like she was at a loss for what to say, “Keith…”

Abruptly, he stood up. Lance reached out a hand. Keith noted without really seeing that Lance looked… distressed.

“I need some time.” He said, turning on his heel and walking out the door.

-

Lance watched Keith stride out the door. Listened to the sound of his rapidly fading footsteps.

He glanced at the faces around the table, measuring the tension in the room. Katie looked vaguely satisfied, as if they had hoped Keith would question all of this newfound responsibility being thrust upon him. Shiro and Hunk were pallid, visibly unsettled, the lines of their shoulders tense. Coran was harder to read, but his brows were drawn in something that resembled concern. Allura radiated annoyance.

Lance pushed his plate away and raked a hand through his hair, “I need a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know this is short, but I'm already halfway through with Chapter 7. I would've combined them, but this was the best stopping place. Hopefully I've have the next one up soon. I'm trying to make the most of this temporary motivation to write...
> 
> Love,  
> Adam


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I sure hope you love the inconsistent length of my chapters, because this one makes up about 1/4 of the fic so far. 
> 
> A few quick things: there's some mild violence in this chapter (well, I think it's mild) and some more swearing. Also, a reminder that Pidge is genderfluid and fluctuates between she/he/they pronouns <3
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Love,  
> Adam

Lance sighed, swirling the liquid at the bottom of his glass absently.

That… could have gone better. He wondered where Keith was. With a deadened pang, he realized how often he found himself wondering that lately.

He drained the tequila in his glass, ignoring the taste. Usually he’d pull a face - he’d never had a problem letting people know that he thought alcohol was disgusting. It was stupid, all the people in the bars pretending that they enjoyed the flavor. Everyone knew that you didn’t drink because it tasted good. You drank to have a good time, or to take the edge off when you were having a bad one.

The fake cordialness of the Shadowhunters was getting to him too, he guessed. On the one hand, they were trying, and he could tell that they were doing their best. However, their facades weren’t hard to see through. They were still, for the most part, extremely uncomfortable around him, and they hadn’t even seen his warlock’s mark.

He slammed the glass down on the bar with more force than he’d meant to use. Although he certainly wasn’t drunk yet (just… highly buzzed), everything felt removed. Like it was happening in a movie. The lithe brown hand clasped loosely around the shot glass belonged to a stranger. The wobbling bar stool was occupied by someone else. Only his pounding headache kept him in the present, reminded him that he was real and really there.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Next to him, he heard a stool being dragged out and felt the soft whoosh of air that meant someone was sitting down.

A low female voice, “Whiskey on the rocks, bartender.” It was husky, accentless to the point of sounding… fake.

It raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

Without lifting his head, he a took mental inventory: he had the knife in his boot, and the adamas boot heels themselves, but his reflexes were a little sanded down from the alcohol. The bar was mostly empty, excepting the bartender and a man passed out in the corner; there was no reason to count on them for help if it came down to a fight.

He was probably just being paranoid.

Opening his eyes, he put his elbow on the sticky bar and his fist to his cheek so that his head was resting on his hand, in the direction of the stranger. It took a moment for his brain to process what he was seeing. When he did, he had to draw on all of his self-control not to jump out of his skin. His instincts had been correct.

Next to him, smiling seductively into the glass she’d just received from the bartender, was Allura Brightweather. But she looked… wrong.

The color of her hair was so sharp, it hurt his eyes, and there was something off about the shape of her face. It looked like her bones were trying to push their way out of her skin. Everything about her looked razored - designed to pierce and kill. Lance knew what she was. A shapeshifter.

_Eidolon._

He felt its hand settle lightly on his arm, and his skin crawled. The touch was delicate, but beneath it he sensed steel, a malevolent strength. Beside him, the Eidolon brushed its hair out of its face with its other hand, tilting its head sideways and smiling at him through half-lidded eyes. But those eyes were leaping with baleful fire, and it sent a chill down his spine.

Demons were usually easy to outwit, but shapeshifters were masters of disguise in more ways than one. He would have to handle this situation with incredible tact.

With his usual savoir faire, he said: “You’re not Allura.”

The hand on his arm tightened immeasurably, and he felt a second hand close around his throat.

Suddenly, he was on the ground. Dazed, he looked up, and through the black spots dotting his view, he watched the Eidolon’s sharp face grow sharper. Its perfectly oval nails, painted an ominous shade of mauve, grew into needle-like claws. He sucked in a breath as he felt the thin spikes gouge deeply into his arm and draw blood where the Eidolon’s fingers grasped his throat.

Warmth trickled down his neck, to his collarbone, staining the neckline of his shirt.

Vaguely, he registered the sound of glass shattering. The bartender was yelling, threatening to call the police. Lance was fairly certain that the unconscious man, the bar’s only other occupant, was still asleep.

The Eidolon had him thoroughly pinned: it was sitting on his chest, one hand still at his throat, the other pinioning his left arm behind his head. His right arm was trapped by his own weight.

The demon’s grip on his neck intensified as it leaned forward to whisper something to him.

Ferociously white hair tickled the side of his face as it pressed its lips to his ear: “Even from the beginning, He sent me to hunt you. He knew that you’d lead us to the Chosen One!”

It drew up and cackled, its back arched and its hair streaming wildly in knife-bright rivulets. Lance couldn’t breathe (and not just because of the demon sitting on his chest, surprisingly). Who had sent this creature? And how had it known, even before he did, that Lance would find Keith?

Lance’s thoughts were running fast but muddy, and the blackness at the edges of his vision was growing. Maybe if he passed out, the thing might leave… It was worth a shot.

Actually? _No_.

He wasn’t just going to sink into unconsciousness like some loser. Even if he did have a concussion, which was seeming increasingly possible. He was Lance Belle, High Warlock of Queens, expert at most things, gorgeous man! This punk demon and a minor head injury wouldn’t prevent him from protecting his newfound (kind of) friends!

He poured all of his energy and irritation into his hands until he felt the magic pooling there, waiting.

Fingertips sparking blue with sudden ardor, Lance wrapped his free hand around the Eidolon’s arm. It gasped, eyes rolling back to the whites, and flailed. The nails that had been buried in Lance’s arm ripped free, gashing his bicep. He grunted, fighting down the rising tide of pain.

It only took a moment for the creature to regain its composure. Apparently over being magically burned, it wrenched its arm free.

The Eidolon seized, its spine twisting unnaturally, and let out a thin, keening cry. Its skin started to bubble and shift, the excess flesh sizzling off its bones as it began to assume its true demonic form.

Above him, the inhuman face that had at one point resembled Allura twisted in a caustic grimace. The blade-nailed hands ripped chunks of shedding hair from its head as it shrilled like a malfunctioning power tool. Lance tried to wriggle away, or push the demon off, but this close the sound was debilitating.

When it finally stopped, Lance’s whole head was buzzing. Despite the ringing in his ears, he thought he heard the sound of a human body hitting the floor, precluded by the bartender saying, “My god!”

The drunkard in the corner made no sound to indicate consciousness.

Apparently, however, he’d been awoken by the commotion, and wasn’t a fan of it, because out of nowhere a bottle smashed over the Eidolon’s head. The hand wrapped around the unbroken neck of the bottle belonged to the dingy looking man who had previously occupied the corner booth. His eyes were very wide and bloodshot, but other than that, he displayed no expression. Lance could only stare, just as surprised as his adversary.

The man looked at Lance and said, “This isn’t happening.”

With a small sigh, he dropped the neck of the bottle on the ground. It shattered with a small jangle of broken pieces, laughably quiet a sound after the clamor of the fight. The Eidolon’s lipless mouth cracked into something resembling a grin as it whipped around, torso turning at an unnatural angle, and grabbed the man’s skull. It twisted once, fast, and there was a blood-curdling crack.

Lance’s heart squeezed.

His would-be savior crumpled to the floor, dead.

The Eidolon turned its full attention back to Lance.

-

Apparently “spring” didn’t mean the same thing in Boston as it did in Bordeaux.

The air was startlingly cold, and every sudden breeze sucked at the dwindling warmth from his exposed hands and face. He couldn’t see his breath, but he felt like he should be able to.

Keith wasn’t really sure what he had been planning on doing. It wasn’t like he’d ever been to Boston before, and even if he knew where he wanted to go, he had no money. With a sigh, he shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and paused.

He’d left the Boston Institute a few miles directly behind him - when he’d left, he had just crossed the front yard to the sidewalk, picked a direction, and started walking. It wasn’t like he didn’t want the Shadowhunters to be able to find him. Really, he just needed some time to clear his head. In any case, he’d ended up here: within sight of some kind of park, and a cluster of cutesy shops and cafés.

Deciding he wanted to stay out for a while, he headed for the park. It seemed safe enough; it was lamplit (if somewhat sparsely) and empty, with lush green grass and a distant glimmer that may have been a pond or a metal bench.

Most of the raw anger had been leached out, but there was still a lot of hard feelings for him to sort through. The coldness of the air made his thoughts crisper, despite his poor night’s sleep, which Keith was grateful for.

He’d been trying his best to see it from their point of view. From what he’d been able to gather, they hadn’t even known he existed until the past couple years, and by then all of the hardest times in his life had passed. If he belonged to a race of demon-fighting, seraphic beings that were under attack from… something, he’d probably do anything to save his people. Including stalking and later kidnapping a random orphan boy from Arizona.

So with that logic, he guessed he really couldn’t be mad at them for not being there. But logic wasn’t all that good at defusing anger. He still felt betrayed, and abandoned, and used.

Looking up from the sidewalk, he realized he’d walked past the entrance to the park. It was about fifty feet back, and there didn’t seem to be another one up ahead. The rest of the park was enclosed by a four foot tall fence capped with blunt spikes.

Keith looked at the fence. At the entrance. Back at the fence.

*It was only four feet tall.

-

Pidge _really_ wished they’d never seen that.

Like, genuinely.

They’d been tailing Keith pretty much since he left the Institute. It wasn’t exactly hard - he just picked a direction and stuck with it. And he either didn’t expect to be followed or he just didn’t care, because he never looked over his shoulder once.

Still, just in case, Pidge had been keeping to the dark edges of the sidewalk on the other side of the street, and a ways behind Keith.

At the moment, they were standing behind a lamppost with a hand to their forehead. _This guy_ was the Chosen One, destined to save them all? The Shadow World was in more trouble than they’d thought.

It wasn’t like they particularly liked or disliked Keith. They actually really admired the way he’d stood up for himself at the dinner table. But they had also just spent thirty seconds watching him fail at stepping over an absurdly short fence, and the following two minutes watching him try to disentangle his pants from the fence spikes. Pidge had been tempted to go help him out, but as they considered this he produced a small pocket knife and just cut off the material that was caught.

They sighed and put a hand to their head. When they looked up, he was walking in a straight line into the park. There was a huge hole in the calf of his pants.

The Chosen One? He was ridiculous!

With a little huff of exasperation, they crossed the street, still careful to keep out of the light despite Keith’s apparent obliviousness.

Pidge cleared the fence in one jump.

-

Lance couldn’t stop looking at the slumped-over body of the mundane man.

After it had killed the man, the Eidolon had yanked Lance up and slammed him against the wall. It had produced a number of long metal spikes, like nails, and tacked him up like a butterfly in a display case.

His arms were stretched out on either side of him, each pierced with three of the spikes. Both of his feet were nailed to the floor. Lance found himself wondering if this was kinda like what Christ felt, stuck up there on his cross.

In short, it was bad. Not the worst pickle he’d ever gotten himself into, but pretty bad.

The demon had disappeared into the back room of the bar, presumably to make a call. Lance could hear it (demons didn’t care much for inside voices), speaking in a guttural language that he quickly identified as Purgatic. It sounded like it was talking to a higher up. From the side of the conversation that he could hear, Lance gathered that the person on the other end was feeding instructions to his old pal the Eidolon.

There was something strange, too, that they seemed to be disagreeing about.

“ _Can we even Turn a warlock? … What if it kills him instead? I can’t extract the information we need from a corpse!”_

Weird.

It occurred to him that he should probably be more worried than he was. His magic was weak and temperamental (a combination of overuse and alcohol), and he was thoroughly concussed. Concussioned? Concussed.

He tried, for the second or third or eleventh time, to magick the spikes to vanish. That seemed to be the only way out of the situation, unless he was willing to rip them through his arms, and that seemed like more of a last-resort option. It would be easier to make them melt, but that would be a complicated wound to heal later, especially since he didn’t know what kind of metal they were made of.

From the other room: _“… Alright. I can do that. I’ll update you when I’m finished.”_

Shit.

The door to the back room flung open with such force that the handle broke off when it hit the wall. Emerging, nightmarish, the demon grinned widely at him.

“We’ve certainly got a lot to talk about.”

-

Takashi had been scrubbing his hands through his hair and pacing for a solid five minutes. Allura really wished he would stop.

Sighing, she walked over to him and gently put her hands on his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks. He looked at her through his lashes, and his shoulders drooped. Everything in his posture told her that he wasn’t just stressed about this, he was… sad. Or at least disappointed.

“I’m sorry. I know you wanted us to make a good impression…” she trailed off, pressing her lips together lightly.

He gently brushed her hands off his shoulders and held them loosely in his own. “I just wanted him to be comfortable here. I know what it’s like to feel lost.” Even his smile seemed a little more breakable than usual.

Allura wanted to kiss him, but now wasn’t the time.

Plus, there was no guarantee that Katie wasn’t hovering somewhere just out of sight. She had a tendency to sit quietly in dark corners and on top of high places when she was thinking.

Tapping her bottom lip with her pointer finger, she said, “Keith will come around when he’s ready. We never got the chance to explain to him what we’re up against. Once he understands what’s at stake, I’m certain he’ll be more than willing to help. I can tell that he has a sympathetic heart, even if he is somewhat… odd.” She cleared her throat.

Takashi’s laugh lit up the room. Every line of his face changed when he laughed, and she could just catch a glimpse of the man she’d fallen in love with before the Shadow War.

His laugh dissipated, all evidence of it vanishing as quickly as it had come. “I know that he reminds you of the night your father was killed. But you have to remember, Allura, that he wasn’t part of it. He was a baby, a victim of the Fey’s cruelty just as you are.”

A bolt of anger whipped through her, strong enough to make her hands shake. She knew it was irrational, and she knew that Takashi was right, but she couldn’t quell the fury that was triggered when she thought about that night. She had been hardly older than a baby herself. It was so _unjust..._

Taking a deep breath, she drew her hands from Takashi’s and clasped them tightly together. She was in control of her emotions. She was Allura Brightweather, and she was in control.

“I know, Shiro. It’s just… My feelings for him are complicated. You understand why. Please, tell me if you notice that I’m being too harsh with him. Any grudges I have are for the sins of his mother, and I would never consciously direct my anger at him.” She looked down at her hands. Her knuckles were almost white.

Very lightly, as if he were afraid she’d shatter, he brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. It took most of the fire out of her. Allura let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

Takashi always knew just what to do to dissolve the tension. “I’ll tell you, but I don’t think you'll need me to. How do you want to do this?”

Ah, yes. They did need to _find_ Keith before they could convince him of anything.

Hunk had convinced them that it would probably be best to give the Chosen One some time to cool off before they dragged him back to the Institute. While she agreed, she also knew that an untrained Shadowhunter with triple the amount of angel blood of an average Nephilim was bound to attract trouble. And to Shadowhunters, ‘trouble’ meant ‘demons’.

It had been decided that one of them would locate and follow Keith. That way, he’d get his thinking time and not get torn to pieces by a Ravener. It was a win for everyone.

Trying not to sound too irritated, she said, “I was thinking that you, me, and Hunk split up and look for him. Whoever finds him first stays to tail him. Bring your cellphones - we communicate via text message.”

Behind her, she heard Hunk sputter.

-

_RAZIEL._

The way Allura talked about mundane technology always cracked him up.

‘We communicate via text message.’ She sounded like Inquisitor Whitechapel (who was 79 and had probably never seen a cellphone in her life.) Hunk choked back another laugh.

Allura looked at him over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “What’s so funny?”

Whoops.

-

“Uh, nothing, that sounds like a great plan! But… what about uh, Katie?” Hunk grimaced slightly, apparently embarrassed to be caught laughing.

Allura paused.

Katie Rosewell had been in the field fighting demons with Shadowhunters twice her age (and size) since she was 11. She was still only 16, but her determination and righteous fire had made her one of the best Shadowhunters of her generation. However, the recent death of her father, and the situation with her brother, had changed her. She was unpredictable now, and reckless. After a particularly close call in a fight with a trio of Elapids, Allura had banned her from the field.

Katie seemed to have forgiven her, on some level. She said that she understood why Allura had made the call, but that she didn’t like it, and that Allura shouldn’t worry.

Which, of course, only made Allura worry more.

“I already told you the results of Katie’s evaluation, Hunk. She’s still too volatile to return to the field. I’m concerned for her safety.”

Hunk looked like he was ready to make an argument, “This is just a surveillance mission, though! And she’s crawling the walls, cooped up in here all day -”

Allura cut him off with a glance. It made her heart twist, seeing him stand up for Katie (who was basically everyone’s little sister, though Allura sometimes thought of her as more of a daughter). But she knew that what she was doing was for the best.

“Yes, hopefully it will only have to be a surveillance mission, but you and I both know full well that it could easily become a battle! And she’s just not ready for that yet. Do you remember that day, in the cellar? The Elapids? She needs more time, Hunk.” Allura glanced over at Takashi, who had been standing silently throughout the conversation.

Uncrossing his arms, Takashi said, “I’m sorry. Allura’s right.”

“Yeah. It’s okay. We should get going, then.” Hunk said.

-

In the time it took for Hunk to shove a pair of seraph blades and his lucky butterfly knife in his weapons belt, Shiro and Allura had disappeared.

He was standing on the stoop of the Boston Institute. Really, hesitating was a better word. He was hesitating on the stoop of the Institute.

Earlier, even as he’d been arguing for Pidge to be allowed on the mission, he’d had a sinking feeling in his gut. One that told him Pidge had already snuck out and started looking on their own. So now, he was stuck. Did he do what he was told and search his assigned quadrant, or make sure that Pidge was safe?

Making sure that Shiro and Allura were definitely gone, Hunk ducked back inside the Institute.

-

Lance watched the Eidolon slink toward him, fighting down a shiver of revulsion.

Its true form was almost definitively less attractive than its disguise. Though it was still vaguely humanoid, it was gruesomely bony and stretched. All of its skin had gone a cracked, ashy gray, and its sparse black hair was interrupted by huge patches of oozing yellow pus on its scalp. Its mouth was a toothy hole in a jagged face (if you could call it a face). Its eyes were dead black.

The thing really needed to learn about moisturizer. Lance wondered if it would take offense if he slipped it a bottle of St. Ives.

Probably.

The demon continued its slinking. Was it trying to intimidate him? He watched in silence, determined not to give it the satisfaction of flinching.

Without blinking, the creature stepped on the broken glass bottle. Lance’s breath caught, slightly.

All of a sudden, it was right there in his face. Much, much too close to his face. The heat of its breath and its body made Lance’s stomach turn. “I want to know everything you know about them, warlock. We know you’ve seen the inside of their Institute. We know they’ve told you their plans.”

 _Good grief_ did it have bad breath. Lance turned his face away, looking past it. On the wooden floor, there was a single perfect footprint outline in ichor. After it, there were several long smears of black blood.

“Didn’t you hear me? _Talk._ ” The Eidolon grabbed his face, forcing him to look it in the eyes.

At that moment that Lance realized that he was more than annoyed. He was furious. And he really, really didn’t feel like being here.

He felt his blood pulsing triple-speed in his veins and thought, _fuck it._

If he had to guess, he’d say it took about five seconds for the demon to realize what was going on. It had taken Lance about three to melt the spikes in his arms and take a swing at the Eidolon’s ugly, ugly face.

“I am not dealing with this tonight!” Lance’s fist crunched into its already misshapen nose. “I’ve had enough weirdness this week!” He kicked the creature’s legs out from under it. “I deserve to go out for a drink and not get kidnapped!” His adamas-capped boot heel came down, hard, on the top of the demon’s skull.

It collapsed.

Breathing heavily, Lance tried to stand up straight, but he found himself listing to the side. That was… unusual. Stumbling to the bar, he flung himself down on one of the only intact stools and went to put his face in his hands. Everything was spinning. The second he tried to move his fingers, however, he was hit with a wave of crackling pain. He bit back a yelp. Looked like his left hand was broken. Cool, cool.

Everything was just coming up Lance today.

For some reason, he was getting the unhelpful urge to puke. It could have been a number of things - the concussion, the broken bones, the gaping wounds in his body, or the turbulent mix of tequila and sweet pickles in his stomach. He chose to believe it was the last thing. It made him feel better, for some reason.

He glanced over at the comatose demon on the floor a few feet away. It was almost comical, really. Lance knew that he was about to pass out, and if the demon woke up first, he’d probably end up in the same situation as before. Possibly shittier.

With a quiet, strangled laugh, he pillowed his head in his arms and let himself drift into senselessness.

-

Pidge was getting kind of bored, frankly.

They’d been hoping that their first night out of the Institute would be more eventful. Watching the Chosen One walk around in circles talking to himself was more unnerving than anything else.

At the moment, they were standing with their back against a tree. Keith was a hundred feet away or so, pacing next to a small pond. Pidge had been still in the same spot for so long that they were resisting the urge to start pacing, too. Yes, they were a great Shadowhunter (it wasn’t a cocky thing to say if it was a universally accepted fact), but they still struggled with staying in one place for long periods of time when there was nothing interesting to see.

They found themself almost hoping that a demon would smell stupid Keith’s stupid blood and attack so they could fight something.

Thoughts like that, Pidge reasoned, were probably why Allura had failed them on their evaluation. Pidge’s newfound restlessness and impulsivity may have worried Allura, but in Pidge’s opinion, they made them twice the demon-fighter than they had been.

With a soundless sigh, they slid down the tree and pulled their knees up to their chest and started ripping up the grass. Technically not professional Shadowhunter behavior, but this also wasn’t an official mission. Still, Pidge never took their eyes off Keith.

Maybe it was karma, or fate, or just the high concentration of tasty-smelling angel blood in the park, but it was only about thirty seconds after that that the Scorpios demon arrived. Maybe it was Raziel, looking down favorably on Pidge’s desire to stain the ground with black ichor.

Naturally, Keith didn’t notice the demon until it was almost on top of him.

It hardly mattered, because Pidge had leapt up as soon as they’d heard the chitinous skittering that signaled a huge, insectile demon. They yanked their seraph blades out of their belt, naming them in a rush and taking off in a dead sprint across the grass toward the clueless mundie boy.

Pidge felt that familiar fire in their blood and broke into a grin. By the _Angel_ , it was good to be back.

They wondered if they could dispatch the demon without Keith noticing. Probably not, because the Scorpios was already within ten feet of him and closing in fast. If that hadn’t been the case, it would’ve been a fun challenge.

“Keith! Get out of the way!”

The Chosen One looked up, his irritated expression melting into shock as he took one look at the demon and stumbled backward into the pond.

Ah, yes. Savior of his race.

At this point, Pidge had cleared the distance between themself and the demon. They skidded to a halt and yelled, “Hey, fugly!”

Not one of their most creative insults, but it got the job done.

The Scorpios demon skittered, spinning around with the swiftness of a striking cobra. Even though Pidge knew demonology backwards and forwards, it was always kind of funny to watch such a cumbersome monster move so fast. A little less funny when that speed was directed at them, but still.

Planting both of their feet firmly on the ground, Pidge adjusted their grip on their twin weapons and jumped. They landed on the demon’s back, stabbing their seraph blades into the crevices between its overlapping armor. The Scorpios let out an ear-splitting shriek.

Hot ichor spurted from the wounds, splashing Pidge’s left arm. The venomous blood was already eating through their sleeves and into the exposed skin of their wrist. Biting back a cry of pain, Pidge yanked their blades out of the demon’s flesh and rolled to the ground a safe distance away to avoid being crushed. They yanked out a handful of grass and started viciously scrubbing off as much ichor as they could.

The demon’s death throes had died down, and it was beginning to crumble and disappear, as demons did when they ‘died’. It wasn’t a true death, in Pidge’s opinion. Not final enough. Demons got to vanish back into their home dimensions. Shadowhunters just died.

After having done the best they could about the ichor (their arm was still burning like it was in a vat of boiling grease), Pidge hauled themself up and walked over to Keith. At some point, apparently, he’d gotten out of that pond, because he was standing, dripping wet, not far from where the demon had just died.

“I could have helped.” Keith’s voice sounded hollow. Pidge guessed that this was the first demon he’d consciously seen.

Trying not to sound too harsh, Pidge said, “No, you couldn’t have. But it’s okay. You haven’t started training yet.”

Keith was just staring at the spot where the Scorpios had vanished.

His black hair was pasted wetly to his forehead, and he looked pallid. The paleness was probably a combination of moonlight, fear, and cold. His overall dampness was probably from falling into the pond. With his red jacket hanging limply off his curled shoulders, he looked as pitiful as a crumpled leaf.

Pidge tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. “It’s time to go home, Keith.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
*famous last words.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to keep going - I hope this sudden burst of motivation sticks with me for a little while longer. 
> 
> Love,  
> Adam


End file.
